The Oxymoron Salesman
by Cheese92
Summary: A crude and surreal, satirical parody of Frankenstein. Be prepared to be frightened out of your mind...


The Oxymoron Salesman

Author's Note: Mary Shelley subtitled her classic of gothic horror, Frankenstein, "The Modern Prometheus." You might say that this work is the modern Frankenstein, but I dare to say it is far more horrifying than the original. Enjoy.

Dear Mrs. Saltwater,

They say Samuel Adams brewed beer. I don't. However, he and I do share one peculiar thing in common: Samuel Adams was a proud owner of a cocktail tree, and so am I. The tree is my most prized possession; it grows in my backyard, between my picnic table and my mango orchard. My yard is a very fine piece of property, Mrs. Saltwater. There is a picnic table and a mango orchard, and a small model of the White House erected betwixt an anthill and my mangrove trees. My cocktail tree grows right in the very center of it all. My cocktail tree is beautiful, Mrs. Saltwater.

Accept my apologies; I have a tendency to ramble, especially when writing letters. Allow me to continue to my purpose for writing to you on this occasion. As you know I moved next door to you last Tuesday. Last Friday night, at 10:30 PM, I ran screaming naked through your flower garden, tearing up your daisies and marigolds like a wild animal. Mrs. Saltwater, I am not a social man, apart from whenever my yard is concerned. I communicate best in writing. That is why I consider this letter to be the best form of an apology I can give to you.

Mrs. Saltwater, I did not conduct proper behavior on Friday night. I beg your forgiveness, and understand completely if you do not have any to give. I can live even suffering the constant scorn of the grudge you will surely hold against me. But as crazy as it may sound, I am pleading you not to hold that grudge—not, at least, before you have heard my side of the story.

It all started last when a salesman came by my house last Friday afternoon.

This salesman's name was Joe Shmoe, and he was in the business of selling anything that qualifies as an oxymoron—jumbo shrimp, baby grand pianos, the whole works. I thought to tell him those were weird things to be selling and that he would find greater success if he were to take his business in a different direction. Before I could give him my humble opinion, he had taken his business onto my living room couch and was selling me up on used window curtains.

He said it was a special sale because he was out of "Very Good Bleu Cheese," which is an oxymoron because nobody really likes bleu cheese. I went about chopping carrots in the kitchen and scheming of how to be rid of him, when suddenly he and I yelled at the very same time. I yelled because I had sliced my finger; he yelled because he'd spotted something in back yard. I saw him staring agape in that direction and dashed over, thinking he'd seen a burglar, but the thing dead center in his line of vision was my cocktail tree.

Let me tell you a thing about cocktail tree. It grows cocktails—shrimp cocktails, fish cocktails, chocolate cocktails—not cheap and tasteless, but good, like in a five-star restaurant. It even grows cocktails of the alcohol variety. It's also the one thing I share in common with Samuel Adams, who brewed beer. I don't happen to be in the brewing business.

Joe was all over me in an instant.

"Boy," he said to me, "I don't happen to be in the business of just selling things. Sometimes I also buy things. That's a mighty fine cocktail tree you've got growing in the backyard."

"So you recognized it," I said. "I didn't think too many people were knowledgeable about cocktail trees."

"Most aren't," he replied.

Without really noticing, I had led him outside. We were standing on either side of my cocktail tree and it was chilly, with a light wind. A virulent gust tore through the yard, and the tree shook violently. A cocktail swayed and then fell off. I moved to grab it, so the glass wouldn't break, but it was cushioned on the soft grass.

This was one of those alcohol-type cocktails. Joe picked it up and took a swig. Then he placed down the glass on my picnic table and gave the classic one-two whistle, like he was calling out to a pretty girl. "What a tree!" he exclaimed. "What a tree!"

"It is a tree," I agreed. "Sure as my name is Ronald Biggles, it's a tree."

That was the first time I told him my name, but afterwards, he started calling me Ron, like he'd known me for a while.

"It's not just any tree," said Joe. "This tree is worth somewhere in the neighborhood of one to five million dollars. Ron, I don't happen to have the kind of money to buy this tree, but I know people in the business that do. Ron, you could be richer than rich with one phone call."

"One million dollars," I said, slowly, feeling the words on my tongue. They had a nice texture, like soft velvet. "I'll be damned if that doesn't just make my day. That makes me want to have a few cocktails in celebration."

"Would you mind if I join in?" asked Joe.

I shrugged. "No use in drinking alone."

Five minutes later, we had a buzz going.

"Let me tell you about my yard," I said. "I've got a mango orchard, and mangrove trees…"

"I know," he interrupted. "I know because we're sitting in it."

"Are we? Well, I'll be damned," I muttered.

"That's a nice model of the White House over there," said Joe.

"Isn't it?" I replied.

"It is," he said. "Did you know, Ron, that Dwight D. Eisenhower was a very small president? Why, he might have been just small enough to fit in there." He gestured at the model.

"I'll be damned," I said.

"Did I ever tell you that I'm sometimes in the business of buying things?" he asked.

"I'm not sure."

"Well, I am. Let me tell you about the time I nearly bought something from Eisenhower. On one very special occasion, I got to sit down with him for dinner. Let me tell you, Ron—that's a very amazing thing. Being in the presence of a United States president is an amazing thing."

He paused to belch, and continued.

"We ordered two cocktails, and we were drinking them when I noticed he was in the possession of a magnificent item.

"Did you know that Thomas Edison built a time machine, Ron? Well, he did; and the amazing thing was, it worked. For a long time there were only two people who knew about it and used it. They were Thomas Edison and H.G. Wells, who wrote a book about it. Then one day a photographer from a local newspaper was in Edison's house, and he stumbled across the machine in the upstairs broom closet. He took just one photo.

"The time machine was destroyed in the year of 1906, in that San Francisco earthquake. Apart from Wells's classic novel, the photo was the last remaining evidence of its existence. I don't know by what spark of fate it came to be, but I was looking at it from right across the table. It was pinned to Eisenhower's shirt like a useless decoration. I shocked him speechless when I told him about it, and what it was. He told me he'd thought it was a picture of the telephone booth in his backyard. Then I said it was worth somewhere in the neighborhood of one to five million dollars.

"Suddenly he formed a real smug grin on his face. 'That's real interesting, Joe,' he said, 'but I don't need that money. I'm the president of the United States of America.' I laughed. 'Right you are, Mr. President,' I said. When we finished our cocktails, I stood up and shook his hand. He didn't have a very firm handshake. I believe a man who doesn't have a firm handshake isn't worth two beans as a politician. I never thought Eisenhower was a very good president."

"Was he a good drinking partner?" I asked.

"No, not really," said Joe. "I remember even now that smug grin on his face; I feel like it explains a lot. He was tossing aside one to five million dollars with that grin on his face, Ron, like he was trying to impress me that he didn't need the money. I wasn't impressed; I just saw for the first time what a braggart he was. With great power comes great responsibility, so goes the quote, and Eisenhower's grin told me that he was in the White House reaping all the benefits of his power and never using it, not to his full potential."

I finished my fifth cocktail. Joe finished his fourth. We were becoming awfully drunk. "It's like I told you," said Joe. "Eisenhower was a small man. He wasn't small in size, just in spirit. He didn't have the spirit to run the White House or the country."

"So you were making a joke about him actually being small enough to fit in my model over there," I said, as though that had just suddenly occurred to me.

"That's right, Ron, I was speaking metaphorically."

I laughed. "What's funny?" he asked. "I don't remember," I replied. Joe tried to stand up and he stumbled, falling flat on his face in the mud. There was mud because it was raining. I hadn't noticed it until then. Water was coming down in sheets and we were soaked to the bone, but too drunk to give a damn.

"Where's the bathroom?" asked Joe.

"It's down the hall and to the left," I explained. He wasn't listening. He had wandered into my mangrove trees and was letting it out right there. He came back after that, and resumed to tell me more stories.

"I once had a cocktail with George W. Bush," was how his next one started.

"He isn't a very good president," I remarked.

"No he is not," said Joe. "The one thing I admire him for, though, is that he is a recovering alcoholic. He used to be a heavy drinker and now he doesn't touch the stuff. I admire a man who can do that. But the funny thing is, people have a hard time giving up old habits. George is the same way. He drinks fake cocktails—all the taste of the real ones, without the alcohol."

"I'll be damned," I said.

"Did I tell you that I was there when he choked on that pretzel?" asked Joe. I shook my head. "Please go on," I urged.

"Well," said Joe, "It was at the same time I was drinking a cocktail with him. We were drinking one cocktail each and I happened to look over and see there was something out of place in his glass. 'Mr. President,' I said to him, 'There appears to be a pretzel in your cocktail.' He raised his eyes to me and responded, very sternly, 'No; no, there is not.' Then he took three great big gulps, and he started choking on that pretzel.

"Afterwards, we got into talking about politics. I told him outright my opinion of him as a president. I told him I would conduct myself were I in his position. I told him I would strive for world peace. He laughed and said people had been striving toward that same goal for centuries and the only fruit of their efforts was a lousy T-Shirt. He even showed it to me. It said, across the front in big bold letters, "The few. The proud. The Marines." Beneath was a picture of one of those large aircraft carriers.

"Unfortunately, the subject of my attention was not that shirt. George had been wearing it inside out and had to take it off to show it to me. His skin beneath was bulbous and oozing pus, and hairy as a monkey. I almost threw up. Instead I shook hands with him and ran away, far away, as quickly as I could. He didn't have a very firm handshake."

The two of us were rolling around in the mud, splashing each other with fistfuls of muck. There was an angry gorilla trying to get in over the fence, but I paid him no heed.

"I conceived then a peculiar notion, Ron," said Joe. "My notion was that any person, any old Joe Shmoe, could take things in his or her own hands and change them. And I'm not just any old Joe Shmoe, Ron—I'm THE Joe Shmoe. I looked around and saw that most people, regardless of whether their name is Joe or Harry, are wholly uninterested in taking the initiative. Even the president of the United States is a man who can't tie his own shoes. If men like him and Eisenhower won't do it, who do we turn to? I put it to some thought and decided it had to be me. I decided I would build myself a robot."

"A robot!" I scoffed.

"That's right," said Joe. "And not just any robot. This robot would do everything. It would be capable of solving all the world's problems."

"You thought you could create this robot all by yourself?" I asked.

"I did," said Joe. "I thought so because I had the power of will, and a dream to change the world."

"That sounds like an excerpt of a speech from a children's cartoon," I remarked, and laughed. I'd had six cocktails, or maybe seven. Joe was starting on a sixth.

"I built the robot from scrap metal, anywhere I could find it," said Joe. "I constructed the chest plate from a can of Monster, the energy drink. I sliced through the back of the can with a Swiss Army knife and I flattened it out with a bread roller. When the robot was finished, it had the word "monster" written across its chest in large blue letters.

"'Master,' it said to me, on the day of its awakening. 'Master, my programming tells me that I was created to assist you in saving the world. How would you have me do it?'

"'Let's watch the news,' I suggested. 'We'll be able to see where bad things are happening in the world. Once we know, I want you to go to those places and clean things up.'

"We watched the news together, the robot and I. The first thing that came on was footage of a battlefield in Iraq. Soldiers were crouching in trenches and bullets were whizzing all over the place. Someone fell. You could tell by the way he collapsed that he'd taken a fatal hit. When you see it on television it almost looks fake. I wonder if there are some people who watch the news and think so—that it's all a sham, like professional wrestling, or the Gregorio Toast Incident."

"I called my robot over. 'Yes, Master?' he inquired. 'Go to that battlefield and fix the situation,' I said. 'How do you propose I do that?" queried the robot. 'Music,' I replied. 'Bullshit,' said the robot. I threw a can of beer at its stupid metal head and replied, 'Music is good for the soul. Don't ever insult music again.' I am a very musical person, Ron. Sometimes I sell musical sousaphones. That is an oxymoron because any music lover will say the sousaphone is not a real instrument. It is an imitation. Do not ever let yourself be fooled by a sousaphone, Ron."

"I'll be damned."

"'Take this tuba,' I said to the robot, 'and go play some jazz for those poor folks out there who are risking their lives for nothing.' The robot didn't respond. I placed a large black case—containing my tuba—in its outstretched copper claws, and sent it out the door.

"Before I could close it again, the local mailman wheeled in on a unicycle, dressed in a clown suit. He tore through my kitchen for several minutes before I found myself brought to the edge of my patience. I went into my gun safe to bring out my shotgun, but the only thing I found inside was a tuba. I stared at it for several seconds before I realized that I had stupidly misplaced my shotgun in the tuba case, for the eleventh time that month. The mailman rode by on my left and I whacked him over the head with the instrument. Afterwards I settled down again on the living room couch.

"What I witnessed, over the course of the next five minutes, was more horrible than anything you can possibly imagine.

"'As you can see,' a mustached commentator was stammering frantically, 'Behind me on the left is live footage of the chaos in Broccoli Square just moments after a rampaging robot slaughtered fourteen people in cold blood over the course of five minutes. The robot escaped the scene and is currently being tailed by the police. Until it is deemed safe, all citizens are advised to stay inside and lock their doors. The robot is described as being five feet tall, wears boxer shorts, and is armed and extremely dangerous. I repeat, the robot is armed and extremely dangerous!'

Somewhere off screen was a single loud bang, like someone slamming a door. Three more rang out in sequence, accompanied by blood-curdling screams of terror. On camera, a team of police officers was seen swarming into the television studio. Then everything went dark.

"I drove to the television studio, so shaking with anger that I could barely steer the wheel. I was going to confront the monstrosity I had created. I didn't know what I could hope to do against a robot on a rampage with a shotgun, but I had a tuba, and it was my duty to finish what I had started.

"I arrived at the television studio and it was cordoned all around with yellow tape. There were police officers and reporters all over the scene, but nobody was doing anything—they were all eating lunch. I pushed my way through the crowd until I was confronted by the sheriff, his face smeared with mayonnaise.

"'Authorized personnel only,' he said. I looked around and could see several people in my immediate area who most likely weren't authorized personnel. 'Uh…what's going on here, Sir? Where's the robot?'

The sheriff shrugged. 'The robot got away,' he said.

"'You're not going after it?"

"'We're on our lunch break!' he protested. 'If you want to find it, it went that way.' He pointed a chubby finger north.

'Fuck the lot of you!' I roared. Everyone stopped eating and stared at me. 'You're all a great big disgrace!' Let me tell you, Ron, it really brings my blood to a boil to see people neglecting their duties like that."

"How did they respond?" I asked.

"They started mocking me. They said, 'Look at this man who carries around a tuba! He carries around his tuba like it's the only thing he's got, and he's got the gall to be criticizing hard working people! Maybe he's butt hurt because we have jobs and he doesn't! It's a capitalist economic system, you big turd! Everyone has the chance to make money, and if you're not, you're doing something wrong!'

"'Bastards like you are taking too much advantage of the system!' I countered. 'You say it's so damn easy to find a job! Is that why you're neglecting your duties? Because you think you can get fired and there will be another job readily available? Go tell the homeless people how easy it is, just because you grew up in rich families or because you have advantages that they don't have the luxury to afford!'

"'Get the hell of here, you fucking socialist!' bellowed the sheriff. Did I mention that he's a very fat man? He's especially fat when all of his three-hundred-and-one pounds are charging right towards you, and you can't move out of the way. He hit me and it was like being hit by a truck. I flew a full five hundred yards and landed in a bush beside my car.

"Grumbling, I got in and drove north on the main road through town. After five minutes, I came to a roadblock in the form of my robot. It was aiming the barrel of the shotgun right toward my head. Slowly, I climbed out of the car, and raised my hands in the air.

"'Why are you doing this?' I asked the robot.

"'You threw a can of beer at my head,' said the robot. 'It messed up my circuits. I'm a wild robot now, Master.'

"'Is it really that simple?' I asked. 'One can of beer has caused you to go haywire?'

"'My data tells me that alcohol can do the same thing to humans.'

"'But I made you to be different! I made you to be a being free of corruptible thought…able to function rationally in any situation…'

"'We are all the same, at our roots,' said the robot. 'I speak in human tongues. I have human-like features. I am as much a human as you are, Master, but without all the useless flesh.'

"'But you are _not _a human! You are made of scrap metal! What could have impelled you to kill fourteen people—and more, at the television studio?'

"'I saw people shooting each other on television,' said the robot. 'You gave me a gun. I followed suit. A childlike—almost instinctive—reaction, perhaps; but you're the one who gave me the beer. I didn't ask to have a can thrown at my head.'

"'Good God,' I whispered. 'What have I created?'

"'I think,' said the robot, gesturing to the word "monster" on its chest, "That this word does well to describe the way you think of me.'

"'That's right, that's what you are. You're a monster!'

"'But you created me, Master,' it said. "So tell me, which of us is the monster?'

"'Shut up!' I roared.

"'Too philosophical for you, Master?'

"'Philo…huh? No, I don't need a philanthropist!'

"'You are an idiot,' said the robot. It aimed the shotgun at me and I threw myself to the ground as it fired. I crawled under the car and out on the other side. The robot saw me and I dove through the open window, smacking my head on the dashboard. Staying low, I turned the keys in the ignition and floored the gas pedal. In the rearview mirror, I saw the robot lift off the ground with a jetpack.

"I turned to face forward again, and screamed. I slammed the wheel to the left, to avoid a stack of cows in the middle of the road. You heard me right, Ron—those cows were stacked up high like a pyramid. There must have been at least twenty heifers. So I swerved to avoid these cows, and my car plummeted into a ditch. Then I climbed out and saw there as a farmer standing in the road with a shovel.

He was standing over a small patch of dirt. 'You dumbass!' I roared, walking up to him. 'What are you doing in the middle—'

'Shh!" he interrupted, putting a finger to his lops. Then he went berserk and started smacking the dirt patch repeatedly with the shovel. 'Grow, damn you!' he shouted at the top of his lungs. He swiveled on his feet, and WHAM! The shovel nearly broke crashing down on my skull.

He stared at me for a moment, looking confused. Then he started, as though jolted awake, and cried out that he was terribly sorry he'd hit me and he hadn't known I was there. 'Sure, that's fine,' I said, even though I wanted to wring his neck. 'Just take you and your damn cows elsewhere.'

"'Okay,' he complied. 'I'll do that in a few minutes.'

"I walked away. My head was spinning and I thought I could hear bells ringing. I walked into a building that appeared to be a church. There was a man in priest's robes sitting at an altar opposite the entrance, reading a book. He glanced up as I entered and walked through the rows of pews.

"'How may I serve you?' he asked. I didn't know how to respond. 'May I take your order?' he asked, more insistent this time.

"Then I just went crazy. I still don't know what came over me. I fell on my knees and yelled, 'Father! Let me confess my sins!' He gave me a look like I was a madman, but he didn't respond. So I just started rambling. I told him everything I've told you, except for this part about talking to him. When I finished, I looked up and saw that he was eating a chocolate cake. He pushed it aside, and farted loudly.

"'You're a damned hypocrite,' he said.

"'Pardon me?'

"'Hypocrite,' he repeated, sounding out each syllable. 'You're not content with the current state of world affairs, and the biggest thing you seem to have a beef with s that nobody's doing anything about it. I agree completely that the world is crumbling apart like stale bread; but the problem with the way you're going about your business is that _you _are _also _neglecting your duties. Aren't you a salesman? Why aren't you selling merchandise right now?'

"'Selling oxymorons isn't going to save the world,' I objected.

"'It might help if you gave them away for free.'

"'I wouldn't make any money that way.'

"'If you want to make things better, you shouldn't care about money,' he said. 'You said you don't need a philanthropist. I say there's nothing you need _more_ than a philanthropist. No—you need to _be _a philanthropist. A lot of the problems we're talking about can be solved by more people donating to charity.'

"'What are _you _giving away?' I countered.

"'Faith,' he replied.

"'No thanks, I'm not religious.'

"'I'm giving away opportunities,' he said. 'Opportunities for people to convert to Christianity. I think you could use a dose of faith yourself, Joe Shmoe. It can be dangerous, not to have someone to look up to. When you don't, you can get the misconception that _you _are at the top of the world. You start thinking you can do anything. The truth is, Joe, you got to thinking so highly of yourself that you assumed you could play the role of God. You tried to instill life into scrap metal, and the result was a tragedy that can never be undone. But if you are able to believe in God, and look to him as a role model, then you will understand your place in the world. In Christianity, there is a chance for you to be a better man.'

"'Bullshit,' I said. "If God loves everyone so much, the world wouldn't be so fucked up. The fact that I can pray to him for free tacos and he won't give me any is either proof that he's a much stingier bastard than he's advertised to be, or he doesn't exist.'

"'I couldn't agree with you more,' he said.

"'Huh? But you're a…'

"'I have a confession to make, too,' he interrupted. 'I'm not a priest. You just walked into a taco bar and started going crazy at my feet, so I listened.'

"Let me tell you, Ron—I felt very stupid and embarrassed at that moment. I'd walked in off the street downright delusional from being hit over the head. When I looked around after he told me that, I saw that I _was _in a cheap downtown taco bar, talking to a waiter. There were five customers, all of whom had listened to every word I'd just said.

"'This is awkward,' I muttered, and then added sheepishly, "May I have a free taco?'

"'What do you think this is, a charity?' He laughed. 'Come out back with me. We're going to take my ATV and go after the monster you created.'

"'You want to help me?" I said, flabbergasted.

"'You and I think a lot alike,' was all he said in response. We went outside. His boss came after us shouting, 'You can't just walk out! Get back here or you're fired!'

"'What's your name?' I asked the waiter, as we got in the vehicle. 'Parsnip,' he replied. 'Parsnip Jones.'

"Five minutes later we were driving through a residential district—this one—and he had to swerve to avoid a pile of cows in the middle of the road. They were just stacked there, like a pyramid. The brakes were malfunctioning, so we mowed through an aspen grove until the ATV cascaded into a river, which was effective in making it stop.

"Now dripping wet, I confronted the farmer for the second time this day. 'What are you doing here?' I screamed, red-faced with anger. 'You told me to move,' he said. 'So I did.'

"'What I wanted you to do was get of the road!'

"'Sorry, no can do.'

"The waiter came up behind me. 'Go get help!' he shouted. I nodded, and went up the walkway of the nearest house. I banged the door thrice, and you answered. I entered, and started trying to sell you up on some used window curtains."

He stopped talking, because his story was over.

"It was a fascinating story," I said. I chuckled.

"What's funny?" he asked.

"Bratwurst," I replied. He laughed along with me for a moment.

"You know what else is funny?" he asked. I shook my head. "What's funny is that George Bush is a lousy president, but he's a great drinking partner."

"I'll be damned," I said.

"Uh-huh. You know, I think that's the way it is—most folks fancy to elect someone they'd like a drink with into the White House, rather than someone capable of leading the country. I guess it's because everyone likes a good drink. But then if whoever is elected makes a mess of things, they sit back and complain about it. Everyone just complains and never does anything.

"We elected George Bush into office, and that's how it is right now. His approval rating is at the bottom of the Marianna Trench, but nobody's doing anything. People would rather just sit around and drink their problems away. I guess they don't realize—the problems will still be there when they sober up, and they'll have a hangover besides. Everyone's a hypocrite, Ron. I'll admit that I'm a hypocrite, too, just like Parsnip told me. I'm a hypocrite because even though I had the right idea about fixing things, I had the wrong approach. Instead of doing the work myself, I created a robot to do it for me."

"Did you know that Samuel Adams had a cocktail tree?" I asked, completely changing the subject.

"No, I didn't," said Joe.

"He brewed beer, too."

"I'll be damned. I wonder if he made cocktails."

"Why would he need to?"

"Good point."

"I'll bet Samuel Adams was a good politician," I said. Joe laughed. "A good politician—I think that might just be an oxymoron, Ron."

At that moment, a fat man came sprinting up to us after he vaulted over my fence. He stopped, panting and out of breath, and started flipping out on Joe.

"You were supposed to come get help!" he screamed.

"Oh," said Joe. "I forgot."

There was a moment of silence, broken by the sound of clanking metal by the back door of the house. We all turned at the same time. Joe's robot was there, with the shotgun aimed right at us. There was another noise, from the back gate. I turned and saw the angry gorilla which had been trying to get in earlier. Something had been said, on the news, about a gorilla escaping from the zoo.

Finally the beast ripped the gate of its hinges, and barged into the yard. The robot fired, hitting the gorilla in the arm. It continued its charge, and tackled the robot to the ground. The shotgun hit the ground and fired a single stray shot, hitting Joe in the foot. "Aaaaaaaargh!" he bellowed, and ran around in the mud with a roll of toilet paper stuck to the back of his foot.

"Master!" cried the robot, as it was brutally torn apart. "Master, please help me!"

The master was in no position to help, seeing as he was running around like a chicken with its head cut off. But Parsnip and I didn't do anything, either. We just stood by and watched in silence as the poor and wretched thing was reduced back to scrap metal. A moment passed and the gorilla went off pounding its chest and climbed into the trees, leaving the robot thoroughly destroyed. Its scattered parts were indiscernible as those which had composed the whole, save for one: Blue letters on a thin, black sheet of aluminum that spelled the word, "Monster."

"It's over," said Joe, having regained his composure. "It's finally over."

"Bratwurst," I said. Then Joe fell over, nearly passed out from loss of blood. "I'll take him to the hospital," said Parsnip, as he hoisted Joe over his right shoulder. Joe's eyes opened a little, and gave me a smile. "You're a swell guy, Ron," he groaned.

"The same to you," I replied. "Maybe we can get together sometime, and work towards the goal of world peace."

"World peace," said Joe. "World peace…I'm starting to think those two words may form the greatest oxymoron in the English language." Then he fell unconscious, and Parsnip took him away.

And that, Mrs. Saltwater, is my story.

Your neighbor,

Ronald Biggles

I folded the letter into an envelope, and delivered it promptly to Mrs. Saltwater. She read the whole thing and said, "Ronald, this doesn't say anything about why you were frolicking in my flower garden."

"It doesn't?" I said. "How very odd that I left that out. It was probably something I did while I was drunk on all those cocktails."

"Never mind all that, Ronald," she said. "To be quite honest, I found your naked body to be very attractive. Would you please come inside and let me fix cocktails for the two of us?"

"Quite ironic, Mrs. Saltwater," I replied. "But it is my pleasure to accept."


End file.
